


pink bruises dotted blue

by sunbound



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Idols, Kinda?, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Road Trips, just a story about finding home when you already have the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbound/pseuds/sunbound
Summary: “Where would we go?”“Anywhere in the world” and for a while, Minghao pretends they can.“Seriously, though. Where?”orMinghao needs the scenery of Shanghai to fill the void chewing at the edge of his heart whenever he looks at Junhui.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 17
Kudos: 91
Collections: BBBFest Debut Round: The Bittersweet Option





	pink bruises dotted blue

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, mari, for being there every step of the way.  
> thank you, giele, for cheering me on when i wanted to yeet my laptop out of my window.
> 
> [[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6HvBGG52kaZ1BrOgRMxSqP?si=TBBqs7N7Sny8fYE3VbkHbA)]

"i will have you without armor.

or i will not have you at all."

_(leigh bardugo, from 'six of crows')_

The thing about their imminent break is that it feels less like a break and more like a hiatus, or a “We haven’t figured out what to do with all of you yet, so please wait there in the corner”, or an “Our contract is ending and no one is talking about renewing it”. The other thing about it is that it leaves them with nothing to do until comeback preparations start, and Minghao has never been good with dealing with his idle hands and how much they crave something to touch—long ago, he unlearned how to go on about his day without the ghost of tiredness sitting on his shoulder, how to move if not with carefully calculated movements.

The thing about performing, about becoming THE8, is that Minghao never quite learned how to step away from it, and now the shoes were yanked off of his feet, leaving him with only holed-up socks to protect them.

It hardly feels like an armour.

▵▿▵

“You know,” Junhui told him three months ago, “a lock with a pretty ribbon on the chain is still just a lock, xiao ba.”

Below, Osaka stretched itself. Minghao leaned forward on the railway of their hotel room’s balcony and looked at the city, the buildings and houses, the billboards and lights. On the blue sky, a new moon shone white, like white crayon on blue paper. “What do you mean?” he asked, not looking anywhere but the city below. It was tipsy to be above so much, to be so small and yet stand so tall.

“Stop giving pretty reasons as to why you’re isolating yourself,” Junhui deadpanned and Minghao liked it better when it was a metaphor he could pretend not to understand. He pushed himself inside and ignored when Jun huffed an annoyed breath.

▵▿▵

“大家好我们是SEVENTEEN” or “大家好我是SEVENTEEN的徐明浩THE8” back home; “안녕하세요SEVENTEEN입니다” here in this place he learned to find a home in. Regardless of language and border, it’s a ‘we’. _We_ are SEVENTEEN . _We_ this, _we_ that. Even when in solo interviews, “Hello everyone, I’m SEVENTEEN ’s Xu Minghao, THE8 .” _We,_ no matter the language, no matter the country. _We._

Minghao doesn’t mind it per se; he has loved these people so much so long to ever be bothered by being a _we_ with them _._ He just doesn’t know what to make of himself without the SEVENTEEN preceding his name—when his name is even mentioned at all.

When put like this, it sounds a lot like narcissism and selfishness, and Minghao wonders how much of each he can dig up from trying too hard to figure himself out—not THE8, not SEVENTEEN’s, not even Seo Myungho, but Xu Minghao, the person under all of that.

Sometimes, it scares him shitless that he can’t find anything.

 _Who are you?_ SEVENTEEN’s Xu Minghao, THE8.

 _Who are you?_ Maybe nothing more. 

▵▿▵

Somewhere in the past, Minghao thought Junhui could be home. He desperately wanted to, almost _needed_ him to be so. Jun has a smile that is soft around the edges and he laughs like sunlight, turning Minghao into his personal sunflower, always leaning towards him. He speaks with words that roll easily off his tongue with a familiarity that Minghao can clutch between desperate fingers and whisper, _home._ And whisper, _this I know._

That was before.

Before, Minghao remembers telling a camera in that green room they spent so many hours in, not really caring who was the staff behind it, _If I’m in Korea and he’s not with me, it’s not gonna work,_ and how that had been one of the greatest truths he ever said at his teenage years. Before, he was a boy rushed into this place, dreaming with starry eyes. Before, Junhui seemed bigger than the world because Minghao seemed smaller than his own body. Before, Junhui was someone to strive for—strive to be, strive to have.

Before, before, before, _before._

It seemed easier back then. Not only this, but everything—the dream, the group, the life they lead. Back then, when the world still seemed too big for them, it also seemed easier to conquer, and the feeling of hopelessness hardly nagged at the edge of their minds. Something about human brains not fathoming things too big, so they don’t seem so threatening. Back then, happiness seemed easier. 

Back then, Junhui almost kissed him countless times—lingering gazes and hands frozen midway to Minghao’s face. The last time was after their Paris concert, still in their dressing room when no one was around. He looked and looked at Minghao. “You were great tonight,” he said, and Minghao whispered something back. “Really great,” and they were close to each other, closer than comfortable, closer than safe. But Seungcheol walked in, said something about leaving in ten minutes, and walked out as if their proximity wasn’t anything worth batting an eye at. As if it were normal, as if it were something they did.

Back then, before, a time prior to this, a place time touches with gentler hands and makes it look like heaven.

▵▿▵

“One more time,” Soonyoung calls, his eyes sharp and focused on their movements. Now, it’s more about polishing what they already know than it’s about learning the choreography. Minghao sighs, shakes his bangs out of his face and looks at the clock across them. 3AM. Tiredness crawls under his skin, stretching over his bones and under his muscles, it seeps into his eyes and makes them burn. He could go on for two more hours.

“Why don’t we call it a day, hyung?” Chan asks from where he’s sitting on the floor, sweat making his hair and clothes stick to his skin. “We’re all tired.”

“One more time and we’ll go home.”

Soonyoung never budges when it comes to practice, much less when it’s his team’s performances. Minghao blames their pre-debut days and how Soonyoung and Jihoon both carried an unspoken burden of responsibility—of their music, their stages, of what inherently made them artists.

Jun gets up and runs a hand over his face. “Just one more, or your tiger plushie is gonna mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night.” Soonyoung laughs, not as strongly as he would if he were rested, but alive just the same, and it somehow gives them the strength to push forward one last rehearsal.

The music starts and Minghao moves out of muscle memory, forcing his limbs to move more sharply than what they’re willing to. It’s their last comeback before their break and Minghao guesses that, subconsciously, he’s trying to dance his limbs away just so it’ll all have been worth it.

 _Worth what,_ he asks himself a lot. When phrased it like that, it sounds a lot like the way that led him there was a burden, a sacrifice, something he suffered through just so he could touch his dream—it feels wrong to phrase it like that when Minghao doesn’t _feel_ like that. The past years weren’t a burden or something bad or a means to achieve what he dreamed of since he was a kid. 

SEVENTEEN is a dream of its own.

The song ends and Soonyoung looks at them. Before he can say anything, Junhui slings his arms around his shoulder, “No. You said just one more. Let’s go home.”

“But—”

“Oh poor Horangie,” he threatens, a lightheartedness evident in his voice like sugar, and they all laugh. Soonyoung accepts defeat and passes his arm around Jun’s waist. 

When they get to the dorm, there’s barely anyone up. Hansol sits on the couch, legs up and chin resting on his knees as he stares at his phone. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Soonyoung asks as he closes the door behind him.

“Trying to figure this verse out,” he says, his eyes never leaving his phone. Generally, Hansol doesn’t struggle much with writing, just puts down words and tries to work with them.

“It’s almost four in the morning. Go to bed, Hansolie. You still have a whole month to figure it out,” Jun says, throwing himself on the couch.

“Yeah, but Jihoon said—” 

“Go to bed,” Soonyoung cuts. “You still got time to write this verse. Most of your other lyrics are written already, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” he replies weakly, already locking his phone and rubbing his eyes.

“Go to sleep. I’ll scare Jihoon if he complains about it.”

“You’ll annoy him into complacency, more likely,” Chan says, half of him already disappearing behind the hallway wall. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, guys.”

“Night nightie,” Jun replies and they all echo a variant of goodnight to him. “Is Jihoon even here?”

Hansol shakes his head. “He didn’t come back today. Guess he’ll be staying overnight at the studio.”

As they talk, Minghao watches, sitting in the armchair, Soonyoung perched on its arm. He leans against his friend’s back and feels his eyelids pulling themselves closed. “He can’t do that _again._ We had a deal, only once a week,” Soonyoung says and shifts, forcing Minghao awake with the motion. “Sorry, Myungho.”

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, already snuggling back into his position, pulling his legs up to his chest. Soonyoung and Hansol keep talking, maybe about Jihoon or maybe the conversation already moved on—Minghao isn’t paying attention, drifting in and out of sleep as he is. Something about recording and practice, then silence, then something about a funny video, then more silence. 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to see Junhui crouching in front of him, face tired and gentle. “You can’t sleep on the armchair, xiao Hao,” and his voice is soft and comfortable.

“Try me.”

Jun smiles at that. “C’mon, you should go to bed.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Xu Minghao, are you _whining?”_ and he snaps his eyes open and tries to glare, but he knows he’s so tired that it can hardly look threatening. Even if he were fully awake, his glares never have any effect on Junhui. “Cute, now c’mon. Bed.”

“What’s so bad about sleeping on the armchair?”

“Your back will be ruined tomorrow, and you’ll complain about it the whole day. If you walk for five minutes, you can sleep comfortably on a bed. How does that sound?”

“Far.”

Jun snorts at that and Minghao feels proud like he always does after making Junhui laugh. “It’s not even five minutes, that was a stretch. You can be in bed in two minutes. Or,” and the playful edge on his tone forces Minghao to open his eyes, “I’ll carry you. Bridal style so I can drop you on your bed.”

“That’s gonna fuck my back just the same.”

Jun grins, mouths _oops_ without a trace of actual remorse on his face.

Minghao thinks that if he were someone else, he might’ve let that happen. He thinks of a braver Minghao, one that lives on a different plane of reality, one that isn’t scared of how much he wants Junhui to hold him as something more than friends. He thinks of a reality where that’s their normal.

He gets up from the chair and playfully shoves at Jun’s shoulder. “You can’t carry me.”

“Is that a dare, xiao ba?” _It’s almost a plea._

He rolls his eyes and makes his way to his bedroom.

▵▿▵

Years ago, Minghao gave Junhui an earring before their comeback with _An Ode_ because Jun was wondering about wearing one again to help with the concept. “What do you want for your birthday?” he asked over their plates.

“You,” he joked in a heartbeat as he always did and Minghao’s heart shrunk as it always did. Jun shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t have anything in mind,” and they finished their dinner because there was nothing else to be said on the matter.

A month later, Minghao showed up with a pair of earrings neatly packed, pretty ribbon and all. “What’s this?”

“Birthday gift,” and despite the nonchalance in his voice, his eyes were eager to see Junhui’s reaction, to see if he’d like it, if his eyes would shine differently for a split second.

And they did. Jun carefully undid the ribbon, he opened the velvet box and saw the earrings lying on a cushion of white silk. Two cross-shaped pendants of steel dropping from a small circle by an even smaller hoop. A smile grew on his face almost instantly as he picked the earring up. “You noticed,” was all he said.

“You said you wanted a new earring.”

He didn’t need to ask if he liked it.

When the comeback season began, Jun wore it every day, almost diligently. He wore it for stages and fansigns, he wore it at the dorm or when they were out. As a matter of fact, Minghao doubted he even took it off. Whenever he’d look over and see Jun wearing it, fondness melted over his heart, coating it with sweetness like caramel apples, and he’d smile.

Sometimes, Minghao would reach out and touch the earring as an excuse to touch Jun. It was an intricate and pointless ritual—they all touch each other all the time, they all hug and cling onto each other, they rest idle hands on shoulders or thighs or necks. Touching, for all of them, doesn’t mean anything anymore, it’s just familiarity, a habit. It’s just something they do. But when it came to Junhui, when it came to touching and wishing for something else, something more, Minghao couldn’t help but turn it into a ritual.

If he stretched his hand to Jun’s earring, then maybe he wouldn’t notice it was an excuse Minghao needed to just touch the side of his face. But then they would laugh together and he’d cling onto Junhui’s shoulders because that’s how he laughs, draping himself over his friends, and he’d remember, _Oh, we don’t have to have an excuse to touch each other._ Not long after that, he’d think, _For how you wanna touch him, you need every excuse you can find,_ and a black hole chewed at the edges of his heart.

▵▿▵

The comeback arrives like it's scheduled to and they can all breathe more easily. When the MV drops, they're all gathered around Jihoon’s phone in the dressing room for their showcase in a few hours. The clock strikes 6PM and he refreshes their YouTube page, a crease between his brows, his feet tapping anxiously on the floor—they've been doing this for so long, but Jihoon’s anxious feet-tapping never changed.

He refreshes and refreshes and then it's there, Jeonghan on the thumbnail, black and gold behind him.

There will always be a peacefulness that follows this moment, when the clock strikes 6PM and the MV and the album drop. It feels like relief and the room for doubt shrinks because, _It’s finally out there._ Good or bad, whether people like it or not, all their hard work and preparation belong to the world, now—no longer theirs to stress over, but the world’s to love or hate, or worse, to ignore, but the world’s nevertheless. 

When the showcase starts and they get to see the sea of fans in front of them, cheering from the moment they come up to the moment they leave, to see them so excitedly and eagerly watching their every performance—it feels right and heartwarming. It’s a reminder that this dream of theirs became the dream of many other people, and for as frightening that might be at times, it can also be reassuring.

Comeback season comes and goes—being as busy as they are with schedule, it passes in a blink. From music shows to fansing venues, they exist more as idols than as themselves, and it makes it even harder to step away when it simply stops. When the promotion weeks are over, when they don’t have as many schedules anymore. After a month and a half, they sit in their dorm’s living room and look at each other. 

“What are you guys gonna do for the break?” Chan asks.

Jeonghan, Joshua, Seokmin, Wonwoo and Soonyoung will go on a trip somewhere. Hansol will go back home and bring Seungkwan along. Jihoon says he’ll stay for a few more weeks. Mingyu and Seungcheol haven’t decided yet, so they’ll keep Jihoon company for a while. “What about you two?” Jeonghan asks from where he’s half-sitting, half-lying on the couch.

Minghao and Junhui look at each other. “I’m going back to Shenzhen, gotta make sure Fengjun still knows he has a brother,” he jokes.

“And you, Myungho? You going back to China too?”

“Not right now, but I will,” and that’s about it for their conversation.

▵▿▵

“I miss home,” he once complained to Seokmin. It was winter and they weren’t home, weren’t even in Korea. The winter in New York shouldn’t be so different from the other twenty-six winters Minghao had lived through already, but his heart squeezed in his chest. 

Homesickness is a lonely kind of ache.

Seokmin smiled sympathetically at him, patted his shoulder. “The first part of the tour is almost ending. We’ll go back home after that and we’ll have two weeks to get tired of it again.”

He doesn’t say, _I don’t know if that’s enough._ Doesn’t say, _I don’t know if anywhere in the world is home enough._ Doesn’t say, _I think I miss my mom._

▵▿▵

The dorm gets too silent when empty and it makes his skin crawl after the third day. Those who would leave have already left—the thirteen of them became eight as they took Jeonghan, Joshua, Seokmin, Soonyoung and Wonwoo to the airport. Eight became seven when Jun left. Seven became six when Chan went back to Iksan-si. Lastly, Hansol and Seungkwan left two days ago.

Now, it’s just four of them and Minghao still hasn’t gotten used to the silence. It’s not that their dorm is constantly chaotic, but silence is impossible with so many people living together. It’s not that their dorm is absolutely devoid of noise, either, but Minghao can’t seem to get used to how he doesn’t hear his friends’ voices every now and then.

Sometimes, he thinks he has a knack for making things out to be sadder than what they really are—Soonyoung sends daily mini-vlogs of what they’re doing, Hansol and Seungkwan face-timed them just yesterday, Hansol’s family’s voice in the background. “Send the boys my love,” they all heard his mom saying. The group chat overflows with texts everyday.

It’s not lonely, not really, but Minghao himself feels lonely. _Don’t think too much about it,_ but feelings have a way of piling up, heavy rocks inside a stomach, dragging the Big Bad Wolf deeper and deeper into the lake. Feelings have a way of piling up and Minghao has been looking the other way for too long and now water chokes him.

“Myungho?” Mingyu calls. “Are you crying?”

And he isn’t, not with real tears, but Mingyu has known him enough, so he walks over and envelopes him in a hug, hand at the base of his head, and he breathes the smell of cologne. Mingyu doesn’t ask what’s wrong, Minghao doesn’t want him to.

Loving Kim Mingyu has always been an easy thing, like looking at a mirror and recognising himself on the surface. If he needed Hegel with Junhui to find himself in the meeting point of a Venn Diagram, subtracting everything else—hypothesis, antithesis, him and Junhui, and he finds himself in the intersection—, he didn’t need anything with Mingyu. It was immediate recognition—similar tastes, similar personalities, similar hobbies.

Loving Mingyu was only natural, and maybe some Greek philosopher said something about this, but Minghao never paid too much attention to his classes about Greek philosophy.

There used to be a time when he thought to be in love with Mingyu. In a way, he was because they’re all a bit in love with each other, but not how he first believed to be. Regardless of how, loving Mingyu has always been easy.

“It’s gonna be okay, Hao,” and he says the H like the Korean one, too soft and round, but Minghao nods anyway. 

▵▿▵

When he was a kid, he liked to stand on tall places and look at whatever lay below—on top of a rock when he was six, looking down at the grass; at ten, on the second floor of his grandparents’ house, looking down at the smaller houses and the streets. When he was a kid, it was clearer. _I want to be a superstar,_ shining like the celestial bodies, looking down at everything.

There’s a tragedy about boys who dream of being stars: they rarely realise that they doom themselves to never find a home on Earth, and Heaven is a promise they can’t touch.

▵▿▵

_junjunjunjun (16:02): won’t u ever come here??_

_junjunjunjun (16:02): it’s been two weeks since the break started_

_junjunjunjun (16:02): and mom is asking about u_

_junjunjunjun (16:03): she’s asking where her haohao is_ 哈哈哈哈哈

▵▿▵

The first time he met Junhui’s parents was after _17_ _Project_ ended. That day, everyone met everyone’s families, but they were all so caught up in the relief of having their rings back on their fingers that none cared too much about _meeting_ each other.

The second time, he wasn't alone—Seungcheol, Seokmin and Jeonghan had all tagged along. They met at a restaurant, he and Jun working as a bridge between their friends and Jun’s family. Jun’s mom fixed Minghao’s hair and said, “You seem like a good kid,” when they were leaving. “He talks a lot about you,” and he tried to smile.

The third time, Mingyu had come with them and Fengjun was twelve years old. They met in a park during a spring afternoon, and Minghao and Jun’s mom watched as the other three ran around, laughing and playing tag. Junhui ruffled his brother’s hair whenever he could and Fengjun pretended to hate it because he was a twelve-years-old boy. 

The fourth time, it was only the two of them and Minghao didn't have to translate anything to anyone, so he didn't quite know what to do with his voice. They had dinner in Jun’s house and Minghao tried not to stare too much at the photographs, but he always got caught looking, which resulted in Junhui’s parents telling stories.

“You're a good kid,” she had decided as she patted Minghao’s shoulder. When they left for their hotel room, Fengjun was trying hard not to cry, but did anyway when his brother hugged him.

Jun is the only member who properly met Minghao’s mom, and he did so only once.

He doesn't know if that means anything.

▵▿▵

_junjunjunjun (16:39): srsly tho_

_junjunjunjun (16:39): u should come_

_junjunjunjun (16:39): even a-jun is complaining and he's a teenager 哈哈哈_

_junjunjunjun (16:40): btw teenagers are impossible_

_junjunjunjun (16:40): were we like that when we were 17???_

_You (17:11): we probably were_

_You (17:11): and my flight is tomorrow_

_You (17:11): i have to go see my mom first_

_junjunjunjun (17:11): it's okay_

_junjunjunjun (17:12): mom is also asking abt mrs xu_

_junjunjunjun (17:12): apparently they're friends now 哈哈哈哈_

_junjunjunjun (17:12): if ur mom wants u can both come_

▵▿▵

Airports used to be an important place. 

Before his career started, airports were a big deal and Minghao looked at everything with childish wonder—the process of checking-in, of sending away his luggage were seen as almost sacred rituals; the restaurants and the stores seemed so much nicer than those of the outside world. When he was a kid, airports were like a world of their own, and Minghao felt like the bravest explorer, like those of the stories he read.

The first flight he ever boarded all by himself was back when he was thirteen. They were going to visit his grandparents, but for some reason he can't remember, he had to go ahead. His mom helped him with everything and kept him company for as far as she could. “Are you with your passport?” and he showed it to her. “Okay. Okay. Do you know where your terminal is?” and he nodded. “You stay close to the gate. Pay attention to what the announcer says, okay? Don't be wearing those earphones of yours,” but he knew he would. “Eat something before boarding. When you arrive, call me. Grandma and grandpa will be waiting for you, alright?”

“Okay, mom.”

He smiled and kissed her cheek. She stayed to watch him disappear behind a wall and waved at him when Minghao looked back. There's a strangeness to being brave at thirteen—there's a lot of playing pretend, like when you’d do it at eight years of age, but being thirteen feels like being old enough, so being brave feels a lot like faking it until you make it.

Despite his shaky heart, taking a plane by himself turned out to be less scary than he first thought it'd be, and way more boring. Maybe there was a metaphor in all of this. Maybe he was just desperate for meaning.

▵▿▵

There's domesticity to how he loves Junhui, and it comes with practice.

It comes with sharing roof for so long, with seeing each other’s ups and downs, with understanding. Deep, terrifying understanding of each other because no one understands the thirteen of them quite as much as they themselves do, and no one understands Xu Minghao quite as much as Wen Junhui does and it's the same way around.

Loving Junhui is an exercise on holding back. Hearts are hungry things and his has hungered for Jun for so long that Minghao fears it wouldn't know when or how to stop taking. Like diligently learning a new choreography, like knowing when and how to move at a beat, loving Junhui the way he does comes with the practiced motions of a body that learnt its role.

Minghao wonders, then, why does it falter? Why does it keep missing the beats, counting them wrong and moving too soon or too late? Why do his hands still reach out to fix Junhui’s hair? Why does he keep stumbling on his own heart whenever Junhui laughs, if his love is so well trained?

A body that learnt its role, but wished for the part it didn't get.

Why does it falter? Because Junhui is like the sun, warm and radiant, and Minghao is every planet orbiting it, every sunflower turned towards it. Why do his hands keep reaching out? Because they want to burn. Junhui is like the sun and when Minghao looks at him, he feels as if standing under a magnifying glass, and it burns his skin, smoke as a warning, a stain that gets darker and darker the longer he insists on not moving. And he never moves, never budges, just waits for the sun to set. 

He shivers during the night, just waiting until it burns him again.

“What do you wanna do?” Jun asks him, dragging him out of his thoughts. “For the next few days, I mean. I don't plan on going back to Korea right now, we could do something.”

Junhui is lying down on his bed. He tosses a tennis ball he stole from Fengjun’s bedroom into the air and catches it. Tosses and catches it. Minghao sits on the opposite wall, near the door, follows Jun’s motions with his eyes. 

“We could go on a road trip,” he half-jokes. Jun tosses the ball towards him and he catches it out of reflex. “That bad of an idea?”

“No, it's a great idea. I mean, I don't know about the ‘road’ part, but the trip sure would be nice,” Minghao tosses back the ball and Jun misses it. It rolls to the side. “I hate driving,” he says, apologetic, as he stretches himself towards where the ball rolled to, which results in most of his body out of the bed. “But a trip would be nice,” Jun finally manages to reach it. He smiles triumphantly before losing balance and falling, and Minghao laughs at the whole scene. “Glad you're entertained,” Jun mocks as he crawls back to his bed, a smile resting on his own lips.

“Where would we go?” 

“Anywhere in the world,” and for a while, Minghao pretends they can. For a while, he dreams of conquering the world. 

“Seriously, though,” he says. “Where?”

“I could take you around Shenzhen, but that wouldn’t be a trip since we’re already here.”

“Shouldn’t we go somewhere neither of us know so well? You grew up here, it wouldn’t be as fun to you. The same if we went to Anshan,” he offers. “Let’s meet somewhere in the middle.”

“Literally or…” Jun teases and Minghao rolls his eyes. “Just kidding, just kidding, xiao ba.”

Time ticks by, the literal _tick-tocking_ of an analog clock coming from the hallway and distracting Minghao from the task at hand. Junhui scrolls through his phone, maybe looking up places they could visit, maybe just SNS . “Somewhere in the middle,” he speaks up after a few minutes. “Shanghai. Neither of us have been to Shanghai enough to really _know_ it. I can ask Yan An for places to go and stuff,” Jun sits up.

 _Shanghai,_ Minghao thinks and it's not a bad idea. _Shanghai,_ and it's a place that isn't too much of him or too much of Junhui, but a middle ground he can find comfort in.

▵▿▵

“What do you think?” he once asked Jun about a song he wrote.

“I like it, xiao ba. I like it a lot.”

Xu Minghao has a habit of asking for people’s opinions, but not truly accepting them if they don’t match his. Back when this happened, he was self-doubting every word for every verse, not entirely sure if it conveyed what he wanted to say, if it sounded well, if it matched the melody.

When Junhui said he liked it, Minghao couldn’t help but think it was a lie, something said out of politeness. They had known each other long enough so it only took Jun a glance to notice it. “Hey, I mean it.”

“Yeah, and you also say you love it when it rains, but you always use an umbrella.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“That we say we like things, but we avoid them. Like wearing sunblock or using an umbrella—sunlight, rain, you don’t let them touch you despite liking them so much. How can I know if you’re being honest?”

“Aren’t you a little poet?” Jun said softly. “I liked it. I mean it. I’d never avoid it—I’d get a cold or a melanoma for it,” he joked and they both laughed. With the ghost of a smile, Minghao thought about how he didn’t quite mean the song. With the ghost of a smile, Minghao thought of a quote he read once, _If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand._

▵▿▵

There's something about travelling that always makes something inside him shift. Honestly, Minghao thought that after travelling so many times to so many different places, he should be used to the whole ritual of it, be those of airports or of simple car rides, but he still feels the same. Travelling makes him excited for opportunity, for a promise the Universe didn't make to him, but he wants to wish upon anyway—imaginary shooting stars.

He clutches to their blazing tails, forgetting about how fire is not something you can hold, no matter how much you want to, no matter how much you let your hands burn, and Minghao wishes for _something,_ for what he can't have.

Practically, he knows change doesn't come from the empty symbolism of a moment. Life isn't a coming-of-age movie, and Minghao isn't going to find all the answers in one half-road-trip through Shanghai. He's already twenty-six, anyway, and his coming-of-age moment should've already happened years ago. Practically, he knows _he_ needs to go after change, knows how to stop at least one of his heartaches.

Practically, Minghao knows he has to let go—of his self-restraint or of Junhui altogether, but he can never decide which would hurt less, so he keeps holding onto flaming tails of imaginary shooting stars, skin burning itself away. It's a familiar pain, one he already knows how to deal with, one he can almost call ‘friend’.

Practically.

Ideally, Shanghai will solve everything, it will mend his heart whole, no homesickness, no heartache. Ideally, Junhui will kiss him under the moonlight, tender hands and careful lips, and it'll taste of red wine and teenage love. Ideally, Minghao will have his wish, the well and all the water in it, and he won't have to give up his coin for it.

At the end, it goes down like this: they catch a flight. Somehow, a few fans are waiting for them at their airport, and lights flash at their faces, phones pointed at them, hiding those behind it. Then, they rent a car, and the staff at the desk recognises them but doesn't bother, just comments about a performance she once watched and loved. “My sisters are big fans,” she says. “I kinda ended up being one, too,” and they're off to go. Despite how many times it happens, it's still funny to be recognised like this, but Minghao grows with it, while Junhui shies away, smiles politely, bows slightly every time. 

He finds it endearing, but the words die at his heart before even attempting to reach his throat, and he places the keys in the ignition without mentioning anything. 

▵▿▵

“Love is the most beautiful feeling, Hao,” his mother told him once. “Love is worth living for.”

Xu Minghao grew up to love, to strive for it, to dream of it. He grew up to dream of what it'd be like to marry and live with the person he loved, to dream of a future of tenderness and the colour salmon. 

At age thirteen, he found out that maybe—just maybe—he could dream of that with boys, too. There's a word for it, and he learned to look at it without wanting to run away. Bisexual. 双性恋. At age fourteen, he could say it, whisper it like a secret. At age fifteen, he kissed a boy and the sun didn't fall from the sky. At age sixteen, he told his mother and she smiled, “Love is worth living for,” she said again, and Minghao cried on her lap like he hadn't done in almost a decade, and she caressed his dyed hair.

Also at age sixteen, he left China for a country where he was a year older. At age sixteen, he met the people he'd come to love—woodwork love, warm but not always easy, love that has to be carved, polished; love that needs work, but that is worth more than life itself. At age seventeen, Minghao trained, he danced and sang, he failed and failed and failed almost like a chore. He poured everything into it because time isn't a currency, so no matter how much he spent it, it wouldn't change that everyone else had trained for longer.

At age eighteen, he debuted alongside twelve other starry-eyed, relieved boys, and he relearned about love, knew even better that love was worth living for—love for his friends, for his family, for his passion. Love that ignited and pushed him forward. 

Xu Minghao, love-driven boy.

▵▿▵

There's something incredibly mesmerising about watching Junhui driving, how his fingers curl around the steering wheel, his side profile as the sun washes over it. Or it can be that Junhui is always mesmerising for Minghao, moon eyes, plump lips, soft skin stretched over sharp bones.

“You're staring,” he says.

“No, I'm not.”

“I have peripheral vision, Hao. You are,” and Jun doesn't take his eyes off the road to look at him and catch Minghao red-handed. “There's nothing here you haven't seen a thousand times already,” he reminds as he swerves lanes. 

“I don't see you driving that often.”

“Does it make that much of a difference?” Minghao doesn't answer, just reaches for the backseat where he left his bag. He rummages it until he touches his instant camera and manages to fish it out. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” he asks as he looks at Jun through the camera. “Take a wild guess.”

“That's a kaleidoscope that looks like a camera and you wanna see things in that trippy way.”

Minghao giggles after clicking the shutter and freezing Jun in this golden light, smirk on his lips. “Wrong. Try again,” he says as he gets ready to take another picture.

“There's a very weird bird flying beside the car and you're trying to snap a pic so you can show me later.”

“Thought you had peripheral vision,” he says as the shutter closes again, capturing Junhui mid-laughter this time. “Wrong again. You lost.”

“C’mon, only two chances? Brutal.”

“We’re not even in Shanghai yet, I'm not gonna use up all the film taking pictures of you on the road.”

“So _that’s_ what you're doing?” Junhui feigns surprise. “I would never have guessed.”

“Unexpected, I know, I know,” he teases as he puts the camera away. “I'm mysterious,” and Jun snorts at that. 

“What are you gonna do with the pics, put them in your journal?”

“I don't have a journal.”

“Would you put them in your journal if you had one?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I'll buy you one. I want the whole scrapbook ordeal, though. A frame and cat stickers and colourful pens. Write something like _The most handsome_ under it.”

“Is this a drive-thru now?” he asks, smile resting comfortably on his face as he looks at Jun. “That's too much effort. I'll just write _Wen Junhui_ and the date, call it a day.”

“Can I have a cat sticker?”

 _Unbelievable._ “Yeah, Jun-ah, you can have a sticker.”

“A _cat_ sticker.”

“Fine, but you buy the sticker.”

“Nice.”

And they spend a while without saying anything, just looking at the road, scenery stretching itself out, other cars coming and going past theirs. There's a peacefulness in it, in this sort of filled emptiness, something to look at while it feels like looking at nothing, while it feels like filling a void.

There’s an art in silence and pauses, scenery between where one comes from and where one goes to, everything that dances on the isohel, and this isn’t just Minghao making poetry out of boredom—there literally _is_ an artistic concept in Japanese art for the in-between. 

Minghao first learned about the concept of _Ma_ a few months ago when he was reading about Japanese art and architecture—the space in between, 間, the sun glimpsed through the gate. _Ma._ It represents a void, an emptiness; not an absence, but a vacant space, a room for opportunity. The Western, Aristotelian logic admits two things—what is and what isn’t, which renders what neither is nor isn’t, or what is _and_ isn’t, impossible. A lie cannot be a truth, and vice-versa. 間 represents that that hasn’t achieved an existence, so it can’t be, but it can’t also _not_ be.

When Minghao read about it, he recognised 間 as 间 and read it like in Mandarim first. _Jiān._ Then, he read about something called _yohaku_ ( 余白), and he read the ideograms as _yúbái,_ but that doesn’t mean anything in Mandarim. In Japanese art, though, it represents the blank slots on the paper, those parts where nothing has been drawn—emptiness, but with a purpose; emptiness, but in order to highlight, to uphold.

When he looks out of the window, it feels a lot like staring at a real life _yohaku,_ except it’s not white nor empty. But it feels like it.

Maybe his silences are a lot like that, emptiness to highlight, to uphold. Emptiness to make a statement. Emptiness, not devoid, but vacant, and there’s a difference there. A vacant house isn’t a lonely one—vacant is a state that admits change. Vacant admits hope, and Minghao clings to it as his gaze drifts from the scenery to Junhui beside him.

A love that hasn’t come to be, not the way he wants it to, so it lies in between. The sun glimpsed through the gate, the lie that is also a truth— _I love you,_ and Minghao lies by not saying _how_ he means it, but it’s the softest truth his heart can muster. _I love you,_ and Junhui says the truth, but Minghao takes his words and shapes them into a lie, into an _I love you like a lover,_ and it’s the hardest untruth his heart dances around.

Vacant admits hope, and Minghao thinks of his heart like a motel of those American movies— _No vacancy,_ and the neon light for _No_ flicks on and off.

▵▿▵

They all had an agreement of not recording until too late, but things didn’t always go as agreed, so Minghao was found outside the recording booth, Seokmin inside it, as the clock ticked itself past three in the morning. 

They needed to finish recording the Chinese version for their latest title track, and Minghao was in charge of helping with pronunciation. Junhui had already finished watching over half of the members, so the last half was Minghao’s, and he only had Seokmin to go and they could call it a day.

The problem was, the clock said it was past three and Seokmin had a bit of trouble pronouncing the _zh,_ making it sound like a _j,_ which was a letter of its own, so they got stuck with the same line for almost ten minutes. He pressed the button, “It's not like that, it's more like,” and he repeated the whole line, putting emphasis on the _zh_ sound for Seokmin to mimic. “Pull your tongue a bit backwards, don't leave it too close to your teeth,” he tried and it worked.

Tiredness had always had its way with Minghao—it creeped under his skin, it latched itself onto his blood vessels and carried itself like oxygen through his entire body. If this were anytime else, maybe it wouldn't have happened—it didn't sound like the type of thing to happen at six in the afternoon. If tiredness hadn't had its way with him, maybe Minghao wouldn't press that button and blurt out without thinking, “I think I'm in love.”

And Lee Seokmin is a blessing, oh God, he is (no past tense; it's not something that changed over time). “Hao, I think you've been listening to my voice for too many years to only have fallen for it now,” he joked, but his eyes were kind. Almost too kind, gentleness made colour and filling every inch of his irises. “Why is it that you _think,_ and not that you know?”

“It feels smaller if I pretend I'm not sure.”

“Does it, though?” he smiled as he stepped out of the booth and crouched in front of Minghao. “Does it work if you know you’re pretending?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this, it’s late and we’re tired, so we should just finish recording and—”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. We can finish it tomorrow morning. It’s okay, no need to apologise.”

Tiredness had always had its way with Minghao, and he sighed, dropped his head in his hands, and felt as tiredness wrapped around his bones and weighed them down. _When you’re constantly tired, you don’t feel it as often,_ he always said, but there were exceptions. There were special times where being tired _hurt_ and made the simplest of tasks feel like climbing a mountain. Where being tired caused Minghao to turn to himself and see the void inside of him.

“It’s Jun,” he whispered, and his voice came out strangled and thin, almost desperate—a hush of air, a cornered prey begging not to be found. “I’m pretending not to be in love with Jun.”

Seokmin didn’t leave, didn’t tell him he’s stupid for it, didn’t lecture him on the obvious complications of being in love with a bandmate. Instead, he looked at him with his kind eyes and smiled sweetly, reassuring hand resting on Minghao’s knee almost like a blanket. “And how does that feel?” he asked with no malice, no intent to hurt, but it did.

Maybe being lectured would be better.

 _How does that feel?_ Loving Junhui had always been like admiring art at a museum. No touching, just admiring and adoring from afar. Like dreaming of the stars, beautiful distant things not made for human hands, not made to be his. 

_How does that feel?_ Loving Junhui had always been loving the sun like Icarus did, and Minghao learned from a young age not to, so he stood under the magnifying glass of his love, melting under the mirror heat of sunlight—‘I love you’s but not said how he wanted. _I love you,_ but it didn’t feel like burning in the sun’s true warmth.

 _How does that feel?_ Loving Junhui had always been an exercise on cowardice, preserving wax wings, but giving his skin burns that made him hiss upon touch.

 _How does that feel?_ Like bathing in lukewarm water that was going cold, ghost warmth and haunting cold that made him shiver. Like knowing he’d be warmer in winter with one more coat, but having no way to get it. 

_How does that feel?_

Like a goddamned middle ground.

▵▿▵

After they arrive and check themselves in their hotel, they go to Tianzifang and Minghao lets himself be dragged around as Jun looks for whatever it is he’s looking for. “I wanna go to a store I couldn’t visit last time we were here,” he says and Minghao doesn’t protest, only smiles behind his face mask when Junhui comes back, radiant smile and holding bags filled with snacks.

He doesn’t protest when they make the most tourist-esque itinerary possible—since they arrived past noon, they only had time for the Tianzifang and French Concession before driving to the Bund to catch the sunset, which they do from a boat on the Huangpu river, surrounded by other tourists.

They both pretend not to notice when a few cameras here and there are pointed at them instead of the buildings. 

“Isn’t it romantic?” Jun teases.

“We’re not on a date.”

“Aren’t we? Just us, the sunset and a foreign city—most people would say romance. I know Jeonghan would. Mingyu too.”

“And Seokmin,” he says instead, deciding to focus on something easier on the tongue. “I miss them,” and Minghao thinks of what it’d be like, the thirteen of them together in Shanghai.

It’s funny how love has a way of settling on people’s hearts. It’s funny to think of thirteen different people, from different places, different countries, jumbled together in a dream. Because of and for a dream. Sharing joys and heartbreaks, sharing away their years—it makes family.

“Don’t worry, xiao ba,” Junhui says as he half-hugs him, reassuring and grounding. “We’re gonna go back to them soon enough.”

All around them, Shanghai comes to life, lights bustling from building windows and lamp posts, from stores and homes and cars. All around them, the world lights up.

▵▿▵

_Oh, you’re so brave. Oh, you went through so much. Oh, you’ve left your home at such a young age to fight for your dream, it’s admirable,_ and voices have a way to sound like white noise after a while.

 _You’re so brave, I can never imagine what it’s like to move to a foreign country the way you did,_ and it’s like this: you can’t read the signs on the streets, the words whispered around you don’t really mean anything because you’re not entitled to them. They’re other people’s. It’s like this: learning an alphabet is easier than picking up small gestures everyone already seems to have and know, but not you because you’re not from here. It’s like this: every step Minghao takes is calculated, trained, perfected. His accent doesn’t leave entirely and it feels like a neon sign.

 _You’re so brave and so smart and so talented,_ but one day he called his parents and spoke Korean for almost two minutes without noticing it. He never felt emptier. His parents giggled and they carried on, Minghao switching back to Mandarim and conversation flowing normally.

 _You’re so brave,_ but there’s a tragedy about boys who dream of being stars, and he thinks that the promise he can’t touch is the promise of home, of _belonging._

It’s a lonely kind of heartbreak.

▵▿▵

As he drives them back to their hotel, Minghao looks at the street signs, the words registering themselves immediately. Beside him, Jun dozes in and off sleep, shaking his head whenever he awakes. It’s a silent drive back. “C’mon,” he says as he pats Junhui’s thigh to wake him up. “We’re here.”

They got two separate bedrooms, but Jun follows him to his and Minghao doesn’t find it in himself to question it when the man flops down onto the bed after only emptying his pockets, still in his jeans and with his shoes on. He just grabs his pyjamas and a towel from the wardrobe. “I’ll take a bath.”

“Sure,” but his voice is muffled by the pillow he buried his face in.

When Minghao gets back, though, Junhui is standing by the window, looking at the city stretching itself in front of them, the lights making it glow like a star—their own sun to gaze at from so close without burning. “Isn't it weird?” he asks without looking away.

“What is?” he replies as he dries his hair with the towel.

Minghao looks at Jun—his own sun to gaze at from so close without burning himself to ashes. He follows the slope of his nose, he looks at the moles dotting his face (one above his lip, one on his cheek. Minghao doesn't have to see to know there's another one above his lip on the other side of his face, to know there's one on his forehead and one on his jaw). He looks at how Junhui’s eyes reflect the lights of Shanghai, how they shine with hundreds of luminous spots, and Minghao doesn't think about how it looks like a galaxy. If he could fish stars out of Junhui’s eyes, he wouldn't ever need to look at the sky again.

“That we exist with a body and, like, people can see us,” he begins. For some reason, it feels like Junhui holds his gaze at Shanghai so his eyes don't look somewhere else. “People can perceive us and hear us and touch us. We exist in a physical form and, like, doesn't that ever get you stressed out?”

“How would we exist if not like this?”

Jun shrugs. “Sometimes, I just think it’s weird that we are real.”

“What would we be? A Matrix simulation?”

“Maybe God is just playing The Sims with us,” he jokes and they fall in silence, not the uncomfortable kind, just a silence they got used to after so many years of living together. Their own brand of silence, and Minghao honestly thinks it's pathetic how much he clings onto small things he can call _theirs_ because otherwise he'd be left empty-handed. “It's just so fucking weird that things can touch us and we can feel it and decide how we feel about it.”

“That's how the five senses work,” Minghao says. “Touch is one of them. And there's also the biological explanation, something about millions of sensitive terminals under our skin. I don't know, you know I never liked biology—”

“It's just so weird,” Jun insists and Minghao notices he's not talking about physical forms and neurons anymore. It's there in the way his voice sort of shakes, how his eyes are still fixed on Shanghai even though there isn't any billboard left for him to read. “That I have a body you can touch, and yet, you're always holding back your hand.”

_Oh._

Minghao feels like crying, so he grabs the keys to Jun’s bedroom and leaves.

▵▿▵

“I am lonely when I love because I feel the immensity of the task—the stoking and tending of love. I feel unable, overwhelmed. I feel I can only fail. So I hide and cling all at once. I need you near me, in my house, but I don’t want you to find my hiding place. Hold me. Don’t come too close.” 

WINTERSON, Jeanette. [_All I know about Gertrude Stein._](https://granta.com/all-i-know-about-gertrude-stein/) 2011.

▵▿▵

_Knock-knock._

_Who’s there?_

_The problems you’ve been avoiding for quite a while now._

_The problems I’ve been avoiding for quite a while now who?_

_Wen Junhui._

“Hao?” his voice makes it through the door and Minghao wants to dissolve where he sits, his back against the wood, light snaking into the otherwise dark bedroom through the crack under the door, almost like an unwanted guest. “I know you’re in there, c’mon. Open the door,” and there are a few heartbeats of silence that makes him hope Jun gave up. “You know, the bedroom is on my name, I can just go downstairs and ask for a new key.”

“Will you do that?”

“No, but I really want you to let me in, Hao,” he says and Minghao sees his shadow moving outside. “Or I’ll just sit here for the whole night, I’ll fall asleep on the floor, can you imagine the scandal?” on the other side, Junhui slides down against the door; Minghao can hear his jacket scratching against the wood. “Superstar Wen Junhui found sleeping on the hotel’s hallway.”

“You’re not a superstar,” Minghao shoots back.

“Ouch, you’re hurting my feelings, xiao Hao.”

Junhui sits there and Minghao watches his shadow through the space under the door, dances his fingers on the floor as a way to busy himself with something other than his thoughts. Something other than the fact that he ran away from Junhui to hide in a hotel room. 

If life were a movie, Minghao thinks a camera would zoom out and show how the two of them are sitting back to back, opposite parentheses in the wrong order, only the door between them. If life were a movie, maybe it’d be easier to open the door.

“Is this a silent treatment?” Junhui asks.

“What would I be giving you the silent treatment for?”

“Just thought I’d ask,” but Minghao _is_ giving him the silent treatment; has been for quite a few years now. Silence is an easy skin to hide in. _You can’t be wrong if you’re silent,_ but maybe he always failed to realise that silence might be a mistake of its own. “You know, my pyjamas are in there.”

“You can borrow one of mine. They’re all oversized anyway.”

It’s all pointless talk, he knows it. Junhui must know it, too. It’s just avoidance, playing pretend like Junhui hasn’t said what he did. _And yet, you’re always holding back your hand,_ and Minghao has always thought he was good at hiding it. Or at least good enough to hide it from Jun.

“I don’t want yours. I want mine.”

“You want me to open the door,” he corrects.

“Oh my, you busted me. I thought I was being subtle.”

Minghao chuckles at that, leans his head against the wood. “Did you mean it? What you said.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to have this conversation without looking at you.”

“And I don’t think I can have this conversation while looking at you. Guess we have a problem.”

“Guess we do,” Jun echoes. “You can open the door and we’ll talk about something else.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like how you promised me you’d put my pictures in a journal if I bought you one, which I did—the whole ordeal, stickers and colourful pens,” and there are three light knocks on the door, not insistent, but gentle. “Tianzifang truly sells everything.”

“Is that what you wanted to buy?”

“No, I wanted to buy snacks. I just happened to also find a store that sold stationery stuff. I left it in the car, but I can pick it up, you get the pics from your bedroom and we’ll talk about that.”

“Stationery and decorating a journal?”

“Stationery and decorating a journal. Do we have a deal?”

“Okay.”

“Can you pass me the car keys, then?”

“They’re in my room.”

“Okay. I’ll also grab the camera since I'm with your keys and I’ll be right back,” and he knocks two times on the door again like a goodbye. After being sure he’s gone, Minghao leaves the door unlocked and sits by the small table in the room.

▵▿▵

“The world digs a hole in your yard/& it’s up to you to fill it, up to you to find something useful to do with your sadness.”

NGUYEN, Hieu Minh. _[Outbound.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/146002/outbound) _

▵▿▵

Junhui comes back, bags in one hand and the instant camera on the other. Minghao didn't bother turning on the lights, so when Jun pushes the door open, the hallway light comes into the bedroom and blinds him for an instant. “Kinda dark, isn't it? How are we gonna decorate a journal like this?”

“Phone’s flashlight,” he shrugs.

“You really don't wanna look at me while talking, eh?”

“I'm braver in the dark,” and it's absurd, but Junhui doesn't complain, doesn't say anything, just finds his way to the table and puts down the stuff he's carrying. “And also, you said we'll only be talking about stationery.”

“Right, right,” he turns on his phone flashlight and starts rummaging one of the bags. “Look!” he pulls out a package of 36 coloured pens. “It's like those when we were in middle school and the fancy kids would have those gel pens with glitter and stuff. We're the fancy kids now.”

“I never understood the hype.”

Jun shrugs as he reaches inside the bag again, “They smell nice and they have glitter. Sparkly things are nice.”

“All that glitters is not gold. Also, they smear too easily.”

“It doesn't have to be gold to be nice, Hao. Plus, you get glitter on your hand. They're awesome, shut up,” he says as he fishes something out of the bag and points the flashlight towards it. “I bought these tape things. Washi tape? I don't know, but they're cute. There were also some with paintings on them, so I got them.”

“What about your cat stickers?”

“They’re here,” and he shows Minghao three sticker sets with different cats—cats sleeping, sitting, standing, cats together and cats alone. Some even have a few standalone fishes. “Cute, right?”

“Didn't you get standard black pens?”

“Of course I did. What do you take me for?” and he puts down three fine point pens, 0.3, 0.5 and 0.7. “Also, I got these things that I don't know how to use, but I'm sure you do,” and he takes a few coloured brush pens. “And that's my stationery haul,” Junhui says, faking the voice of those vloggers. Minghao smiles.

“Could've gotten us some pencils.”

“No pencils. If you make a mistake, improvise your way out of it.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Not everything is a metaphor. I just forgot to buy them and made that up,” he chuckles. “Okay, let’s get to decorating _this_ bad boy,” and he pulls out a paperback journal. It’s leatherbound with a deep blue, a crescent moon pressed into the leather with silver foil on the bottom left corner. 

“It’s nice,” Minghao whispers as he reaches out to grab it. “Where did you get it?”

“Tianzifang, I told you,” and Jun snatches it back, opens it on a page. “And _I_ will be decorating my page because I don’t trust you.”

“What do you mean you don’t trust me?”

“Will you write _the most handsome_ under it? No, you won’t. So I don’t trust you,” he grabs the pictures and one of the black pens, and starts drawing or writing. “Hold my phone here, please,” and Minghao does.

He looks and looks, watches as he’s been doing for over the years, never changing it. Junhui is mesmerising and endearing, and Minghao doesn’t mind watching him. In this semi-darkness, he outlines Jun’s silhouette, tries to imagine the expression on his face, tries to picture a soft one.

 _This is stalling,_ he thinks and knows it’s true. This time, they’re both avoiding and stalling, and lingering isn’t something that suits Wen Junhui because he taps his foot or shakes his legs, he drums his finger on surfaces or just moves in general because staying still is unnerving to him.

They remain silent for a few minutes, for what could’ve been hours, and it’s breathable, comfortable enough that Minghao doesn’t feel an urge to get out.

They remain silent, until they don’t.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss you, you know,” Junhui says as he places a sticker on the page. “Many, many times. Since we were teens.”

“You looked at me with that hair and still wanted to kiss me?” and they both chuckle at that. “Why didn’t you?” he asks after a while of silent watching.

“I couldn’t. Can’t.”

“You could’ve. Still can.” Minghao pretends he doesn’t notice the edge of hope in his own voice, how he almost pleads.

“That’s the thing, Hao,” Jun bites the inside of his cheeks, chews on his tongue. “I can’t. I can’t kiss you on your terms, and I know you enough to be sure you won’t kiss me on mine.”

“What are you talking about?” but Junhui doesn’t answer, just picks a blue pen and keeps on doodling. “Jun?”

“You’ve always loved love,” he starts. The uncertainty in his tone, the way he speaks slowly, they’re such alien things. “And I know you’ve been loving me—I’m not that oblivious, you know,” and he switches his pens, blue for pink. “But you’ve never loved me knowing I love you back like you want me to,” he says as he writes something on the page. “If I had kissed you, all of the times I’ve wanted to, can you tell me you wouldn’t have run?” and he looks at him, pink pen in his hand.

Even in the gloom, Minghao’s edges start to fray under Junhui's gaze, the same edges he tried so hard to sew neatly so they would never come apart. It’s an open field and he can’t hide; all he can do is be _seen,_ and it’s terrifying. Junhui returns his attention to the journal in front of him, but Minghao can’t bring himself back from that open field.

“You want to love me, Hao, but as long as you don’t know that I love you back, and I would’ve never been able to kiss you without saying I love you,” he says as he drops his pen. “I can’t kiss you on your terms and you can’t kiss me on mine, so we’ll keep our lips away from each other,” Jun runs a hand over his face and sighs. “I’m going to bed.”

“You’re wrong,” Minghao calls after a few heartbeats.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. I never needed any conditions to love you,” and he feels like choking, his head buzzes. “I need conditions to many things, but never to this,” he takes a step towards where Junhui sits by the edge of the bed. “I don’t have any terms when it comes to you, Jun.”

“Braver in the dark, huh?” Junhui scoffs. On the table, the flashlight points at the ceiling and the room is still far too dark, but Minghao can see Jun drumming his fingers against his thigh. “You say you love the rain, but you always use an umbrella,” and it feels like a fever dream.

“What?”

“You told me that once, don’t you remember?” but how could Minghao ever forget that. _If you love me, you don’t love in a way I understand._ He nods. “Well, so how can I believe you when you tell me you love me?”

“Because I—” he trails off and he _knows_ that Junhui’s shoulders slump after the twentieth second without an answer. He doesn’t need any light to see that, and it makes him choke on his own breath. _You’re losing this,_ and it’s desperating, but his words run away from him and no language seems to grasp what needs to be said. No language could ever make up for years of aching silence, of aching silently, and Minghao realises this with one painful _Oh._

 _Love is worth living for,_ so why does this feel like dying, like being torn open, like not being able to breathe?

When he was a kid, Minghao dreamt about a myriad of loves, different tones and colours, different shapes and fragrances and tastes. Love made impossible, love to fight for, to die for; saturday-night-pink love, neon lights and an alcohol he never tasted; soft love, morning lights and peaches, summertime and baby breaths; red love, burning desire and lipstick smears. Love, love, love.

Loving Junhui has never been like that, but a shade of love Minghao never thought of. Not red nor pink, no neon lights, no colour salmon. It’s always been lilac—soft and tender, but unusual; lavender blowing with the wind, delicate things that seem they will fly away, but they endure. Lilac, soft blue and pink. Lilac, lighter than purple, than the colour of a bruise.

 _I’m braver in the dark,_ and Xu Minghao has always been raised to strive for love.

“It’s getting late, xiao Hao. We should go to bed.”

“If I kissed you on your terms,” he says instead, “would you let me?”

“Can you?”

“I’d catch a cold or a melanoma for it,” he mirrors Junhui’s words from those years ago and walks forward, smile on his face, and hears Jun laughing.

Xu Minghao, love-driven man.

**Author's Note:**

> i have never been to shanghai and i had a bujo phase, can you tell?
> 
> okay so!! here she is, pbdb, my bbb fest entry And my first published svt fic. now that it's finished, i've got a few things to say. first of all, thank you all for reading, means a lot to me. _pink bruises dotted blue_ was kind of challenging to write bc it's my first time writing for a fest, my first idolverse fic (i have a moral dilemma w this) and also i'm horrible at writing without whimsical magic and fantastic elements in general aksajsjkajs so, it was challenging, but i'm content with how it came out, despite me self-doubting every step of the way. 
> 
> for those who don't know, the bbb fest is the 'bleak boyband bingo', so i had a bingo sheet with prompts to fill, and the ones i chose for pbdb were "everyone saying 'i love you' but not quite in the way you'd like", "homesick but no idea where home is", "capitalism induced 'found' family", "using the wrong language with your own family", "intense bond with countrymates despite clashing personalities" and "subtract all the parts that came from them and there's nothing left". hopefully, i managed to write them properly. if you'd like, we could talk about how i filled the prompts or anything really regarding the fic, on my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/jkvnsky). this fic has a [pinterest board](https://br.pinterest.com/floresetcorvi/pink-bruises-dotted-blue/), as well as the playlist linked in the beginning notes. 
> 
> regarding the ma and yohaku stuff said in this fic, i've learned about those in college last semester and although i Do have academic bibliography to back up what i wrote for pbdb, i don't have those in english, sorry. (however, if you speak portuguese you can ask me and i'll link what i used for my paper!!)
> 
> thank you a lot for reading, this fic means a lot to me, and hopefully it'll find a place in your hearts too ♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/junitonin) | [tumblr](marblecut.tumblr.com)


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